


speak first, think never

by Flowerparrish



Series: winterhawk bingo [10]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5 + 1 Fic, 5 Things, Anxiety Attacks, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Clint Barton Has ADHD, Clint Barton has anxiety, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Insomnia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Clint Barton, Pick-Up Lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27724723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish
Summary: 5 times Clint flirted with Bucky via bad pick up lines, and the 1 time Bucky said one back.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: winterhawk bingo [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1439263
Comments: 27
Kudos: 176
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	speak first, think never

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sporadic_fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sporadic_fics/gifts).



> Thank you to Danni for beta reading! Love you darling. 
> 
> **Winterhawk Bingo Square:** B4 - Bad Pick Up Lines

(1)

Clint’s always had a mouth that ran away unchecked. It’s gotten him in more than a few scrapes, but hey, it’s gotten him out of a handful, too.

When he opens his mouth this time, words running away with him once more, he’s uncertain which option it’ll be this time: trouble, certainly, but the good kind or the bad?

“You dropped something,” he says when Bucky walks into the lounge in skinny jeans and a crop top, hair piled up in a bun.

Bucky actually looks down at the ground, checks behind him, and then quirks at an eyebrow at Clint in question. If Clint was ever one to hold back, now would be the moment, but that’s just not who he is. So he opens his mouth and finishes, “My jaw.” He adds a little wink, and he savors the blush on Bucky’s cheeks even as he rolls his eyes.

A few years ago, Clint would never have dared to flirt with Bucky. Back then, he was still The Winter Soldier, still a ghost story that had haunted Clint’s career and still a ghost of a person following silently in Steve’s shadow.

Now, though, he’s none of that. Which is not to say he's ever going to be the same person he was before, and Bucky and Steve have both had to make their peace with that.

Privately, Clint thinks maybe he’s  _ better.  _ He radiates the kind of contentment that comes from being at peace with life, the good and the bad, the things that can be controlled and the things that can’t. He’s quiet, but he’s also funny and quick-witted and can match Clint pun for pun if they get going. And he radiates an aura of calmness that makes him the only person other than Nat who Clint can stand to be near on bad days, so he’s clearly magical or some such nonsense.

If Clint didn’t already have a best friend slash platonic life partner, he’d think maybe Bucky was that. But he does, so clearly Bucky is not.

But he’s… something.

Clint’s under no allusions that he’s good at sorting out the tangled mess of his own feelings. He sees better from a distance; other people’s motivations are easy to pick out, but his own are endlessly a source of confusion.

It’s alright. There’s no rush. He’ll be patient, and until then, he’ll continue to let his mouth run away with him and see where it takes him. After all, there’s a 50/50 shot that it’ll be somewhere good (okay, maybe more 65/35, but he can’t be bothered with  _ semantics _ ), and he’s just reckless enough to take those odds.

(2)

The second one comes in the heat of the moment. Clint’s juggling the training of some of the new Avengers, his own missions and reports, and all of the extra things that come with being an Avenger that he hadn’t anticipated when he signed up for the superhero gig. Namely, state dinners and charity galas, speeches and live-on-TV interviews, photoshoots for famous magazines and whatever else the publicists that Tony and Pepper insist they need have come up with each month.

It’s a lot. But Clint’s always been good at juggling.

Now if only he could get  _ other people  _ to understand that.

Bucky is the latest person to attempt an intervention, coddling Clint by asking how many hours he’s sleeping a night and if he really  _ needs  _ to be up at 4 am to get to the television station for Good Morning America.

No. He doesn’t. But! Clint also does not go back on his word, and he does not ever admit defeat. He doesn’t keep up with superpowered beings without stubbornness, determination, and a vast underestimation of his limitations. If he pretends he doesn’t have limits, then he can push right past whatever they might be and  _ get things done. _

Finally, he snaps, waving his arms in the air and cutting Bucky off in whatever he’s saying. “I am on top of things!”

Bucky’s brow pinches, and he looks  _ hurt,  _ which is the last thing Clint wants. Before Bucky can open his mouth to say something—not that he appears inclined to, at the moment, which means Clint’s really fucked up—Clint casts around for something to cut the tension.

Finally, he adds, “Would you like to be one of them?”

It’s weak, as far as pick-up lines go. He goes so far as to wonder what he’d do if Bucky said  _ yes,  _ but he knows the answer immediately. He’d go to bed with him; they’re friends, he likes and trusts Bucky, he’s attracted to him and it would be a good time. So he doesn’t actually regret the words now that they’re out of his mouth.

But Bucky just opens his mouth, closes it, and hums. His eyes, when he looks Clint over, are appraising. When his gaze locks on Clint’s once more, he quirks an eyebrow in a way that is so  _ Bucky  _ it makes Clint’s heart do some kind of weird twisty-melty thing in his chest. “And deprive you of the few hours of sleep you’re actually getting? Nice try, Barton.”

He pats Clint’s shoulder and leaves him be, and Clint feels thoroughly wrong-footed.

He almost always gets the last word. But, he can acknowledge, as the surprise fades and leaves only intrigue and excitement in its place, what he likes best about Bucky is that he keeps Clint on his toes.

He’ll have to try harder, huh? He can do that.

(3)

They’re on a mission near Bucharest—so close, and yet so blessedly  _ not  _ Budapest—and Clint is pestering Bucky to let him drive.

“Come on,” he wheedles, feet kicked up on the dash, fingers drumming against his thighs to the music in his head. Bucky, of course, does not want the radio on, because it might  _ ruin his concentration. _

Fuck concentration; Clint’s about to vibrate out of his own skin. “Give me the keys,” he pleads.

“Why?” Bucky finally snaps, sounding weary and annoyed. Clint can work with that.

He could say that Bucky’s been driving for eight hours and, yes, he’s probably done more for less reason, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t tired  _ now. _

He could say that if he doesn’t have a task to focus on, he’s going to self-destruct in a spectacular way just to have something to  _ do. _

But no. Bucky has left him alone in his head for too long, and he’s had time to  _ plan  _ this one. So he smirks and says, “So I can  _ drive  _ you crazy.”

The car veers, just a little, toward the center lane for a split-second before Bucky corrects. It would be a negligible response from anyone else; from Bucky, it’s a tell so large it may as well have been written across the sky in big block letters.

“You’re already driving me crazy,” Bucky finally replies.

“So you have nothing to lose.”

Bucky sighs and pulls the car over on the side of the road. He turns off the ignition and tosses Clint the keys. “Fine. Don’t make me regret this.”

It’s not everything Clint wanted—he didn’t get a blush this time, just Bucky’s fingers too-tight on the steering wheel and a moment of lost control—but he’s got the keys, he’s got a  _ task,  _ and he prances around the car to the driver’s side before Bucky’s even done getting out of the front seat.

“Thank you,” he says happily, his smile larger than this really merits. Nat would punch him in the face for daring to be so pleased after being so annoying.

Bucky just rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “Whatever.”

Clint doesn’t mean to do what he does next. He doesn’t even have an excuse for it. Normally, he keeps tight control of his actions in a way he’s never kept tight control of his mouth.

But…

He leans in, pressing a brief peck to Bucky’s cheek. “Thank you,” he says again, and then nudges Bucky aside so he can climb into the front seat.

If it takes Bucky a few extra seconds—really, half a minute, not that Clint’s counting—to move around to the passenger side of the car and climb in, well. That just gives Clint more time to find a good radio station. Thank fuck everywhere in the Western world seems to have at least one American pop station, because he likes Romanian music, but he doesn’t speak the language fluently and right now he needs to  _ sing. _

(4)

The gym is Clint’s home away from home. Or, well, it’s still in the Tower, so his home away from his apartment on his floor? Nah, that’s too much mental effort for details that don’t matter; so, yes. His home away from home.

He’s just finished running fifteen miles on the treadmill, sweaty and a little worn out—maybe he’s getting old after all? Gross—when he cools down and then steps off as it finally slows to a halt, tugging his Bluetooth earbuds out of his ears and pocketing them.

He glances around the gym, which was empty when he got here, but now Steve and Bucky are sparring in the center of the boxing ring, and Clint can’t well resist a show like  _ that. _

Bucky’s cute today, wearing a hot pink tank top that says "Killing It" in sparkling silver letters with stars for the dots of the “i”s. He's also wearing tiny shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Clint would like to say, upon reflection, that he even  _ notices  _ what Steve is wearing… but he doesn’t.

In his defense: how could he, when Bucky’s up there looking like  _ that? _

He loses track of time watching them spar, gooseflesh rising on his skin as his sweat cools. When they finally stop, he’s not even sure who the winner is—they’ve won so many rounds between them that Clint’s lost hope of keeping count.

Bucky glances over and does a double take, as if he’s just now notices Clint’s eyes on him. And Steve. On him  _ and  _ Steve.

“Did you know,” Clint says, mouth moving on autopilot because his whole brain is just a series of exclamation marks and some embarrassing drooling emojis, “your body is made of 70% water?”

Bucky smiles a little and shakes his head, eyes twinkling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clint confirms. “And I’m thirsty as fuck.”

Bucky laughs, a loud bark of sound that makes Clint’s heart skip a beat.

“Gross,” Steve says from next to Bucky, and oh, yeah, he’s still here too. “Get a room, you two.”

Bucky shoves at Steve and rolls his eyes when he meets Clint’s. He moves down and squeezes Clint’s shoulder. “Spar with me next time?” he asks.

“There’s no way I can win,” Clint points out.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen you spar with Nat. I think you’ll do just fine. Or…” A glint of mischief lights in his eyes. “Are you saying you can’t keep up?”

“Fuck no,” Clint replies instantly. “Name the time.”

“I’ll let you know,” Bucky promises. “Better go get some water. I’m  _ thirsty,  _ too.” He winks and walks off toward the showers, whistling as he goes.

“What just happened?” Clint asks Steve.

“I am so not getting in the middle of this,” Steve replies. “Figure it out, and please stay far, far away from me when you do.”

He leaves then, Clint standing in the center of the gym alone and a little bereft.

_ Huh,  _ he thinks. And then he goes to find Nat so she can talk to him in riddles that it’ll take him months to make sense of, because that seems more likely it’ll give him answers than talking to Bucky or Steve.

(5)

Clint hasn’t slept in three days. He wants to, he tries, but he wakes up panicking every time he gets to that half-asleep place, mind spiraling in circles and unable to shut up.

By the third morning, he’s slumped over the kitchen island, coffee in his hands that's there more for warmth than any hope it will wake him; it won’t. That’s not even what he uses it for these days, anyway.

“You alive?”

Clint looks up and blinks blearily at Bucky. “Think so. Unfortunately.”

Bucky hums and sets about heating some water, an act which Clint’s brain can’t make sense of. “Coffee’s in the pot,” he points out, even if the words are a mumble.

“I’m not making coffee.”

That statement makes no sense. Clint doesn’t care enough to figure it out. He’s so fucking tired.

He plops his head back down on his arms and doesn’t doze, but he does drift, head blissfully empty as he listens to the sound of the water boiling and, when it’s done, of Bucky moving around the kitchen, opening cupboards and other such small things.

“Here.”

He picks his head up with monumental effort to see a cup of tea in front of him. There’s no tea bag, but the smell is unmistakable: Earl Gray, just like Clint’s mother used to drink each morning when he was a little kid. He certainly did not get his love of coffee from her.

“For me?”

Bucky hums in affirmation, leaning against the counter, elbows planted and chin in his hands. He watches Clint, waiting, so Clint tugs the mug closer and inhales, eyes falling shut for a moment.

No memory of childhood has any right to be this soothing; not when memories of his childhood are part of the haunting thoughts that have been keeping him awake, driving him deeper and deeper into an anxiety spiral.

He opens his eyes again and blinks at Bucky. “Is your name Earl Gray?”

Bucky takes it in stride; he’s used to Clint’s nonsense now. He just waits, patiently, for Clint to finish his statement.

“Because you’re a hot-tea.”

Bucky laughs, a soft and warm sound, and it feels like a blanket just out from the dryer is being tucked around him. “Drink that and get some sleep, Clint.”

Clint does. Bucky probably doesn’t mean for him to sleep right there on the kitchen island’s countertop, but then, he really should have been more specific if he’d intended anything else.

(+1)

Bucky and Clint finally get around to sparring.

Bucky wipes the floor with him, but marginally less than Clint expected. So he’s feeling pretty good about it—feeling pretty good about life in general, even—when he finally pants out, “Okay, that’s it, I give, you win. Let me up.”

Bucky’s seated across Clint’s upper thighs, braced over him, and his weight is solid, a wall of muscle boxing Clint in against the mats.

That’s not what Clint’s focused on, though. He’s focused on the faint flush to Bucky’s cheeks, the slight uptick in his breathing rate, and the way his eyes flick down to Clint’s mouth before he says, “Can I borrow a kiss?”

Clint finds his own grin stretching wide across his face, delighted. It’s the moment of realization, but it doesn’t hit like an epiphany; instead, it settles in his bones, warm and  _ right,  _ like: of course this is where they’ve been headed all this time.

Bucky, he realizes, has just been waiting for Clint to catch up.

He has zero intentions of saying  _ no.  _ He’s a himbo, yes, but even he has more sense than  _ that. _

But before Clint can say,  _ yes, yes, a thousand times yes,  _ like the kind of period-piece-watching romantic he secretly is, Bucky adds, “I promise I’ll give it back.”

Clint’s mouth falls open. It’s such a bad line; it’s perfect. He surges up, kissing Bucky for all he’s worth, and when he finally draws back, Bucky’s cheeks are flushed a much darker pink, his lips kiss-swollen and beautiful. “Well,” Clint says quietly in the charged air between them, “if you  _ promise.” _

Bucky makes good on his word.

Clint’s never been more glad for his lack of filter.

**Author's Note:**

> If you happen to like any of my ongoing WIPs and wonder why I never update them, you have a shot to get me to actually finish one in a reasonable (ish?) span of time! 
> 
> I am currently participating in the What2Finish charity auction on tumblr, and you can bid on my WIP fic auction. Winner gets to pick the WIP I will finish in 2021.


End file.
